Prototype
by That's the Glory of Esther
Summary: Cato and Clove have lived as test subjects their whole lives, in a secret institute deep beneath District 2. Raw, ruthless, disciplined, they pave the way for a new breed of soldiers to defend and intimidate the rest of Panem. But when a new 'antidote' to their emotions doesn't react with female DNA, their experiment and lives may be threatened by the thing they fear most: love.
1. Prologue 1

__**Greetings, fellow tributes! First story on this account, and I'm quite excited. I decided to make a separate account for my...more refined work. The fanfictions I like more than all my others. And this is the start of a new one, which I've been mapping out for about 6 months. A bit longer than I think is necessary, but I tend to procrastinate. Oops. Anyways, I hope you enjoy this. Friendly reminder that credit for the original story goes to Suzanne Collins, who sadly, I am not.**

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_Subjects: Initiated  
Examination Process: Initiated_

-Clove-  
I'm awoken as the pristine white lights above me flicker on, illuminating my small, bare room with artificial sunlight. They're turned on at the same time every morning – although I'm yet to learn what time that actually is. Each night, at identical times like daybreak, they're turned off and my windowless room is swallowed into the night. I think after all these years, I've learned to rise and fall with these lights, so I've come to the conclusion that it isn't the lights that have woken me up, it's knowledge of repetition. My eyes simply open at the same time they're activated.

I take the time, as I lie there for a few extra moments, to look around the cell. Yes, it's a cell. A perfect white cube with only a small, hard bed to occupy it is not a bedroom. But then again, I have no idea what a real bedroom should look like. I have never set foot outside this building, never seen the proper light of day. They show us pictures of forests, deserts, mountains, oceans; simulate environments for us. But I have never felt the warmth of the sun's rays on my skin, nor the cool breeze of a winter. I know what it should feel like, though. Somehow I do.

Right on schedule, the door to my room opens. There is no handle on my side, only on theirs. I could not leave if I wanted to. Two people in crisp white outfits, a man and a woman, enter, and I sit up in the bed. The door closes; a man with obviously more lethal training than the scientists that crawl around this place stands guard outside. This doesn't faze me in the slightest. It happens every morning.

"Look alive," the male scientist says to me, lightly tapping two fingers to my left temple. I instantly tear away from my thoughts and discard them, focusing on the people standing in front of me. It would not matter whether I was wide awake or on the verge of falling asleep, he always does it. And I always respond. Two fingers to my temple is the manual command to get me to focus. It's not that he thinks I'm not focusing, he just likes to test it. He says it's to make sure my understanding of it is solid, but I think it's just to show off a little. He _did_ invent it after all.

My eyes scan over the two people standing before me; searching for any differences, noticing all the details. The man is tall and thin, a white lab-coat draped over his shoulders with an ID badge pinned to it – obviously a scientist. The mousy brown hair atop his head is thinly cut; prickly facial hair of the same colour circles his mouth. Round, wire-rimmed glasses perch on the bridge of his nose, slightly magnifying his grey eyes. His face is faintly wrinkled, age beginning to wear into his features. Not surprising: he has tended to me since the day I was born. Which I assume was a very long time ago.

The woman is much shorter than her male counterpart, but still quite in good shape. She wears a grey pinafore and white apron which look like they have been starched beyond belief. Two golden ringlets hang down either side of her face; the rest pulled back into a tight bun. Strangely enough, she's a scientist too, but she merely tends to me. It's doubtful she creates anything like the tall man beside her. Like always, she's carrying a spotless silver tray. On it sit what I'm usually greeted with in the morning: a syringe of translucent green liquid, and my training clothes. The type of clothing I have worn every day for the last ten years.

First thing's first, the icy drug is shot into my veins, followed by a strange sense of strength. I guess I could say this is part of my staple diet, although I've never asked what it is. It's supposed to enhance every sense, increase our sense of judgement, refine the thought process until it's pinpointed on our one goal: pass examination process. That's what the Capitol wants us to do: mark the beginning of a new form of discipline. If we pass, many will follow in our footsteps; undergo the same training, absorb the same chemicals into their bodies until they're developed fighters like us.

When I say us, I mean me and the only other test subject. A boy. From a very young age we have been partners. We've each made the other into a stronger warrior through ruthless abuse, verbal and physical. He'll narrow down to my weakest areas and yell at me, tell me I'll never amount to a good sword-fighter; consequently I end up pushing myself too hard on a regular basis. Likewise, I've worn scars into him that'll never disappear. I've used my knives, my nails, my _teeth_ to do whatever damage I could. We hurt each other, we hate each other, but ironically enough we need each other. We're partnered prototypes, you might even say it's programmed into our minds. He's the one face in this entire hellhole that I could never mistake, and the one I need to see every day.

Two quick taps to my temple, and I'm back on track. Ready to endure anything they throw at me. Throughout my usual habit of organising all my thoughts while it's still the early morning, they've managed to pull me into my clothing for the day: thin, stretchy underclothes with a long white tunic over the top. A small number two is printed in the middle of my chest. This is what I've worn since I was five. This is what I'll wear until my job here is done.

I'm led down the long, clean hallway by these two people, towards the training room where I will undoubtedly spend most of the day with my partner. Completing test after test. Maybe repeating a few. I'm just itching to get there and throw some knives – that's my specialty. But I know trying to run ahead would have me restrained. Oddly enough that's all that would happen. Corporal punishment doesn't exist for us anymore; they think we've been hurt so much it wouldn't teach any discipline.

The hallway is completely empty. No pictures or plants by the walls. The occasional guard or scientist walks out of one of the doors that are placed in equal five-meter intervals, before disappearing into another. I can't say I've been in a lot of those rooms, but I do remember the ones I did go into. The least known one to me is the room I was born in. I probably can't even pick out which room it was, but I have brief memories of it. Bright lights, crying, a form of emptiness. I don't know why I felt so alone. I've always been alone here, technically. But this wasn't a normal feeling, it was something that tore me apart inside, despite being a few hours old. It's the one emotion I've never been able to understand.

Then there are the other rooms: Room 3, which I have yearly health assessments in; Room 8, in which I take mental assessments every month (a requirement for all test subjects); and Room 14, which is my room. I'm not too sure how many rooms there are in this entire hallway, which pretty much makes up the east wing of the facility. By the looks of it, there'd be at least fifty. It's a _very_ long corridor. My partner is in the west wing, which I assume is about the same length. It's completely identical, and I wouldn't be surprised if he hadn't been in any more rooms than I.

It isn't long before we reach a metal doorway, which is bolted and locked from both sides. A tiny keypad with bright numbers is built into the wall, marking the only possible way to get through to the other side. I may not know this place inside and out, but I'm certain every corridor as well as all the exits are blocked like this. Because obviously a door I can't even open from the inside isn't enough to keep me in.

A number is punched into the keypad so quickly I can't even tell how many digits there were. The door unbolts and slides open, revealing that the space beyond it opens out into a large, round room that must be a few hundred feet in diameter at least. The floor is hard, grey concrete, but black safety mats have been placed over the majority of the surface. I look around, seeing all the usual training equipment like climbing bars, beams, dummies, and racks of weaponry. The two scientists leave me to my own intentions (locking all the doors first, of course) and I walk into the centre of the training area, my eyes darting straight to the knives. I pick one up, weighing it in my hand. I've come to realize that knives are like people: each one different despite looking slightly similar in anatomy. They have to be understood thoroughly before they'll be of any use to you, and even then you have to know _exactly_ what that use is. I twirl the one I'm holding a few times before holding it in both hands, examining the slightly curved blade. It's for throwing; not at a vertical angle like most others, but horizontally. Accuracy is key with this type of weapon. If thrown right, not only will it slice through a throat like butter but hopefully come back. Like a steel boomerang. I hold it out at my side, eyeing a training dummy keenly. I think of where I want the knife to go: straight for the neck. I pull back slightly, swing my arm, flick my wrist slightly, and…

"Hey bite-sized!" a voice jeers from behind me as the weapon leaves the palm of my hand. The sudden distraction pulls me off focus; I look back momentarily, to the blonde boy leaning against the wall behind me with a smug look on his face, and then quickly back to my target just in time to watch with dismay as the misaimed projectile buries deeply into what would be the bowel of my kill – _not_ what I intended at all. He snickers, not even bothering to hide it. He can be so cocky sometimes. It'll be his downfall one day.

"Dammit, Cato!" I bark back to him, turning on my heels, my fists clenched as I glare angrily. I storm up to him, but he continues to laugh, "You did that on purpose!"

"Obviously," he scoffs, and I roll my eyes. He uncrosses his arms as he picks up a simple throwing knife from the inset shelf in the wall, playing with it in his hand. I know he does it to tick me off, I hate it when my knives aren't handled properly. Yes, I call them _my_ knives, but no one else uses them anyway. I watch the shining blade, slightly mesmerized as he balances it by the point on the tip of his finger – I've wondered for years how he's able to do that – before flicking the appendage up, sending the knife twisting a few inches into the air above. I take the chance to grab it while it's airborne, and as soon as my fingers enclose around the handle I spin on my heels, letting the knife fly from my hand and pierce my previous target straight between its non-existent eyes. I smirk smugly, looking back at Cato briefly before walking off purposefully to the white-clad scientists beckoning us over.

"Nice shot," Cato murmurs in my ear, walking so close behind me I can feel his breath on my shoulder. I grin proudly as we come to a stop, standing side-by-side in front of seven people: our two trainers, the scientists and nurses that come bring us out in the mornings (one each), and who we've come to assume is the head scientist in the facility: Dr. Allik. He's an intimidating man: gaunt, prominent features covered in ashen skin that looks as though it's never seen the sun, much like Cato and I; an entirely bald head – though I can remember quite well when he had a full head of pitch black hair that seemed to stick out at random directions; a pointed goatee, a tattoo of a skull and crossed-over bones on his right wrist. Not that I'm daunted in the slightest by him, but normal people might be.

Our trainers are two of the most disciplined people in the district. Both are stocky, muscular men who are about Cato's height. One of them has olive skin, dark eyes and a shaved head; the other is pale, with one blue eye and one hazel, and cropped brown hair. Neither I nor Cato knows their names. We simply call them 'sir'. They're both victors, we're told; from the 60th and 67th Hunger Games. Which isn't surprising: only the best of the best could get jobs like they have.

The Games have never been any of our concern. We were taught about them briefly, but not much. All we've ever been told is that just about a century ago, a group of people tried and failed to overthrow the Capitol. The heart of our nation that protected and loved us. And as a consequence, we have the Hunger Games: a battle to the death where only one of the twenty-four tributes can win. It's our price to pay for disloyalty.

I could win with my eyes closed. All I'd need were some knives. I could slice and skewer everyone in a matter of days; twenty-three isn't that much, and a lot of them would die of other causes first, anyway. Of course, allies would come in handy too, for a while. I could manipulate my way into someone's trust by playing innocent. And if I couldn't do that, I'm sure there would be a group made up of the skilled tributes. I can be quite a patient person when I want; I would bide my time, then pick them off one by one. Inconspicuously, of course: perhaps poisoning their food, or slitting their throats in their sleep. I can see it now: a new mixture of blood on my knife every day – fresh, hot, sticky. Blades buried so deep I can only see the sleek black handle sticking out. Slashes across throats that are as wide as the victims' eyes. The thought brings a twisted smile to my face.

"Distraction," Dr. Allik begins in a booming voice, and we stand to attention. It's amazing, how quickly we can be pulled into reality. Drifting away from it takes a bit more time. I actually have to be interested in a thought to get carried away by it. It's sort of like sleeping, in a way. I will wake up in an instant; no hesitation, no delay. But I can lie awake for hours, far into the dead of night until I can feel the rising of the sun that I've never seen.

"It can be caused by anything," he continues. I focus on him again, "from anxiety, to mental disorders, to emotions. And distractions," he stops in front of us, "will get you killed."

We nod obediently. There is only a split-second's difference between life and death, we've been told. What you do in that split second could either save your life, or end it. I'm not as easily distracted when I'm fighting. I know I can't afford to let my mind wander.

"So today," Dr. Allik announces, a slight smirk on his face, "we will put your focus to the test." The two nurses walk up to us, wheeling a tray between them. On top of it lie chords, electrodes, wires and other experimental instruments I'm sure I could never recognise. Cato watches in amusement as electrodes and wires are attached to my wrists, temples and chest. I glare at him, gasping slightly as more conductors are placed on my neck. They gather the wires above my head, attaching the ends to a long chord. I feel like a puppet: restricted, controlled, my limbs only able to move slightly.

"What about him?" I ask, looking at Cato.

"What _about_ him?" Dr. Allik retorts. I hiss at my partner, who throws a teasing smirk at me as I'm led to the testing room. It's about half the size of our training area, and every time we go in there's always something different. Today, there is a giant glass cylinder, filled with what looks to be ice cold water. I grit my teeth, my heart jumping as I acknowledge the fact that I'll have to go in there. But I'm not scared. _'Fear is only an illusion,'_ I tell myself firmly, _'and pain is only a state of mind.'_

I look out of the corner of my eye at Cato, who is still grinning. He'll never let me live it down if I fail this. But as I'm pulled up onto the platform, I only just manage to catch the subtle thumbs-up of encouragement he gives me. We may rival each other, but at the end of the day, we're still partners.

"Inside this tube, there is a puzzle key that will open the door," a voice explains to me. I can't tell which voice; I'm too focused on the eerily still water below my bare feet. I am the only one standing on this small extension of the platform. There is a button beside me, which I assume is something I have to press on my own accord. The platform will probably give way, dropping me into the icy water, "It is the only way to unlock it from the inside. Once you're underwater, the door will automatically seal and can only be opened by the correct resolving of the puzzle or someone from the outside. Your only time limit is how long you can hold your breath. Work quickly, but don't forget that too much use of energy can waste your only ally in this test: oxygen."

I know what they're doing. Relaxation isn't a big part of our training, but I know that to preserve as much air as possible, I'll have to keep a clear head. I can't panic, even though small spaces have definitely never been my friend. I won't even think about how much time is left before I run out of oxygen, I'll just focus on my goal: solving the lock to the door.

There's a shrill beep as the machine, which is at the other end of the chord which holds every wire attached to me above my head, is turned on. A steady, rhythmic beep settles through the silence, a line escalating and dropping at sharp intervals across a screen. It doesn't take long to realize that they are monitoring my heart rate, and by the looks of the ever-changing numbers and other things rising and falling on the machine, it is not the only thing they're observing. What the other things might be, I have no idea.

I take a deep, steady breath, wiggling my toes. My right arm stretches out, my palm cupping the smooth silver button that will begin this test. I know this is mental as well as physical, so I have to steady myself. I will count from five, then I will push the button, and from there I will work as quickly and as efficiently as possible.

_Five_.

I run the plan through my head one more time.

_Four._

I hesitantly peek down at the enclosed, water-filled space below me.

_Three_.

It doesn't look very inviting.

_Two._

I look up to see Cato standing across the room, leaning against the wall. He gives me a reassuring nod. It calms me.

_One._

I take a deep breath and close my eyes. My palm pushes the button in. There's a short click. Followed by a short moment of silence.

Then the next thing I know, the ice water hits me like a brick wall.

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**I hope you enjoyed that first chapter! Reviews are love! **


	2. Prologue 2

**Sorry this took so long. I have exams to study for and a production to rehearse. I hope the length makes up for it. Thanks to the few who reviewed the first chapter, I'm hoping to get a little more on this one before I continue with chapter 3. Thanks to my darling beta reader Louisa for helping me fix things up!**

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At first, my senses are bombarded with a confusing combination of tiny bubbles, paralysing iciness, the inability to breathe and confinement. It takes a moment to get a grip, and take control of myself _and_ the situation. I remind myself that I can't think about the stiffening pain in my joints, or my already deteriorating supply of oxygen; I must distract myself from the things that will hold me back. And the only way to do that is to get right to work.

I begin to tread water, keeping myself level with the lock to my only exit, as I wave away miniscule bubbles that froth and swirl around me as if they were insects on a hot day (not that I can truthfully say I've experienced either of those things). My vision sharpens into focus and I can now see further than the lock; beyond the transparent glass. Cato is watching me, the nurses are watching me; everyone is watching. I can't fail this.

I don't plan to.

No time is wasted in analysing the puzzle lock. It is a four-by-four grid, the surface of which is sleek and black. A touch screen. Why aren't I surprised? – there's one by each door. They recognize the fingerprints of staff members and grant access into different rooms. Of course, I highly doubt this one will recognize my fingerprints.

Furrowing my brow in concentration, I press my index finger against the first little square. It's illuminated for a short moment by a pristine LED light, which is not at all dissimilar to the ones that light up my cell every morning, before fading to black again. I frown in confusion and press it again, this time keeping my finger there for longer. The same thing happens, and I grow frustrated. So I try another square: the one directly diagonal to the first one. Second row, second square. This one lights up, and to my delight, stays lit. So I go back to pressing the first one.

To my dismay, both of the squares fade.

I hold in a whine of frustration, which would surely waste my breath. The object of the puzzle quickly reveals itself to me: a pattern. With each square I touch in the right order, more and more will stay lit until the entire grid is illuminated. But one wrong square will send me straight back to the start. Trial and error is definitely involved, and lots of it. I can't lose my head.

So I begin again, and again, and again; my memory retaining the sequence of each successful press as my inevitable mistakes send me back to a blank canvas. Second, second; second, fourth; fourth, first; first, third; third, second. It takes me a minute to get eight of the sixteen squares lit up, by which time my screaming lungs are beginning to demand attention and I _still_ can't see any noticeable pattern. The last time I did one of these brainteasers, I was eight, and the sequence was a checked pattern; the only thing left to do after that was to fill in the blanks in order. But I see none of that now. No pattern, no picture. This is definitely much harder.

My eyes flick back and forth over the grid, almost frantic to see any sign that might point to the next square in the sequence. Only eight remain; is there a good chance I'll be able to get them all right in one go? I doubt it. But I try not to let myself think that I'm panicking. I'm not, but the pressure has definitely heightened.

Ten seconds pass, and I feel that the very first square is the right one to pick. The one I first chose. It's the right one now, I'm certain. My bones are still aching from the freezing water, but I am otherwise numb to the cold water. I am too distracted to care, anyway. Instinct is drawing me to that button: row one, square one. I don't hesitate for a second; don't give doubt even a moment of advantage. I press my finger to the little corner of the touchpad. The LED lights up; I smirk to myself as it stays that way. Instinct is always your greatest weapon. _Always._ I look up at Cato sitting across the room, watching me. Waiting for me to screw up, no doubt. But I haven't, I only have seven squares left in the pattern. The arrogant grin is still on my face, I can feel it although my face is numb. He rolls his eyes, and that's my cue to get back to work.

But as I look down at the lock, I see to my dismay that the nine squares which were once lit have now gone dead. I can hear the beep of the heart monitor outside of the cylinder, although only barely, and I can hear it undoubtedly stuttering in surprise. In fear, even. I won't deny that I get scared. Fear is human. As much as I hate to admit it, it is _also_ human to make mistakes. And I just made a very big one.

My heart is pounding in my ears: loud, throbbing, distracting. It only serves to remind me of my limited breath. I can't think about that, because every second I do I only want to take a deep gulp of air. Which, while surrounded by several hundred litres of water, would be a very bad thing to do. So I swat it from my mind, and focus on the touchscreen again. I try to repeat the pattern: second, second; second, fourth; fourth, first – or was it fourth, third? Oxygen depravity takes over my mind so quickly that my attempts become frantic. I press each square as quickly as I can, resulting in the rapid flickering on and off of the LEDs. My lungs scream for something that's less of a liquid nature. I feel like they're about to burst from my chest and seek fresh air without me; leave me drowning in a small, watery space.

In my delirium, I turn to what I see as my last resort: banging my fists against the glass. The water slows my movements drastically, bubbles streamlining behind my balled-up hands as they attack the curved wall, but I can still hit hard enough that the contact of my skin and bone on the glass makes a loud thump. The nurses, trainers, extra scientists, even Cato, rush closer to the glass. I just keep trying fruitlessly to break out, opting to throw my entire body against the barrier. Hoping that they'll get the message, although I'm pretty sure they already have.

Outside of the tube, the only sound I'm able to hear is the rapid beeps of the machine monitoring my heart rate, but I can see a spat igniting between Cato and the scientists on the platform. Or, at the very least, _he's_ yelling. Persuading them to let me out, probably. We've always had each other's backs, even though he probably just wants me to get out so he can prod at me for failing sooner. I narrow my eyes as the thought enters my head. '_He's such a bastard', _I think to myself, as my feet press flat against the thick glass behind me.

Although it's probably a delusion of my oxygen-depraved stupor, I can sense the area of the tube I was beating at weakening. All it needs now is a good, hard push and it'll give way. No one's paying attention to me now; all too caught up in the heated debate between Cato and who I presume is Dr. Allik. I bend my knees, bringing myself back against the opposite side of the glass cylinder. My lungs are now so empty it seems my body no longer wishes to inform me of my need to breathe. Without thinking (not that anyone can think straight with such little consciousness left), I propel myself forward into the glass, twisting my body so I don't collide with the glass head-on, and my shoulder will take the full impact of the force.

Frustratingly, I underestimate the small space I have to work with.

My shoulder doesn't quite make it far enough to take the whole hit. Searing pain jolts down my left arm as the top of my shoulder collides with the glass, which isn't as weak as I'd assumed. It reawakens the chilling stiffness in my joints, makes my fingers throb with a strange heated sensation. But all of that is nothing compared to the almost unexpected, sharp shock to my temple, as my head also hits the transparent wall with a loud thump. It drives all remaining air from my lungs, and from the corner of my eye I can see that everyone else has turned to look at me. But all I can focus on is the pain. It feels like the collision hit one part of my brain, and in the sheer force it was rebounded into the opposite corner of my skull, throbbing pain now attacking me from all angles.

I'm suspended in my place for a minute – or maybe it's only a second – before I start sinking. A few tiny black pinpricks spot the edge of my vision; only a few at first, but within seconds they're swarming my view like insects. Only, I can't swat these ones away, even if I _could_ move. Between the black spots, I notice the ends of my hair floating above me, following me down to the bottom. The swaying movement lulls me. I want to reach out and play with it, but as I've noticed already, I can't move, which gives me the suspicion that I'm already unconscious.

I feel solid ground beneath me: blessed, solid ground. My hair comes to rest over my face, still moving slightly upwards from my jaw. Like it's slowly consuming me. Through the deafening pressure of the water I hear almost nothing; even the beeping is inaudible to me now. But I do hear one thing: rushing in my ears. I can't quite pick out the origin of the noise, which frustrates me further.

Then a cold, icy chill hits my shoulder, and slowly starts creeping down my sidewards form. In no time at all, half of me is covered by this freeze that is somehow colder than the water itself. What is it? Rigor mortis, the slow but painless onset of death? At first, that's _exactly_ what I think it is, and my heart stutters in absolute panic at the notion that I'm dead. But then my common sense comes back to me: my heart's still beating; I can't be dead. This epiphany is shortly followed by another realization:

They're draining the tube.

There is no more water, save for the wet ground and however much is covering every inch of my body. Now, there is no more rushing sound. There is no sound at all. Just the sense that I am surrounded by people. I feel tugs at my skin as the wires and electrodes are removed. An arm wraps around my waist, a warm hand on my abdomen as I'm hoisted off the ground and over someone's shoulder. Then my body begins to bounce. They're taking me somewhere. But I can't tell where: my hair, although it definitely isn't under the water's lulling spell anymore, is covering my face. I only just manage to get the smallest puff of fresh air into my lungs before the rest of the world turns black.

* * *

Blood is the first thing I taste when I wake up. It's metallic and salty and all I can do is swallow it down. I don't particularly like the taste, but I don't _hate_ it. It's familiar, and I guess there's logic behind the fact that I find comfort in familiar things, even in this case. The throbbing pain hasn't disappeared from my shoulder or head. Wincing, I bring a hand to my temple, only to feel scratchy fabric underneath my palm. My head's in a bandage.

That's probably where the blood came from.

The next thing I notice is the scratchiness of my throat, the dull burning as I take even the smallest of breaths. My lungs still feel like they're on fire, my chest emits silent groans of pain as it expands and retracts, but at least I can breathe again. I'm not sure how long I've been out; time isn't exactly the most relevant thing to us here. But I can hear no noise surrounding me, so I assume everyone has left me to lie here in peace. I guess that would mean I'm in a stable condition.

When I open my eyes, it feels like it takes a lot more effort than it should. The sort of sticky bodily fluid that is present in my eyes when I wake up every morning has accumulated in the corners of my eyelid, but my arms are like lead and won't come up to rub it away. As my eyes adjust, I'm met with a sight that I'm definitely not unfamiliar with: the hospital ward. Like the rest of the facility, it's mostly stark white, except it isn't as high-tech. Two separate single beds with stiff white sheets sit side-by-side at one side of the room, while a separate office with a glass window for the doctors and nurses is nestled in the corner, and retractable curtains that can hide each bed from view are the most noticeable things. But it isn't cosy, either. There are no flower pots, no paintings, and hardly any noise. Just two beds: one for me, and one for Cato. Its purpose is to heal us, not comfort us. Not that it would do a very good job; this place could never be like a real home.

I tilt my head to the side on the pillow, my eyes slowly adjusting. A figure lies, relaxed, on the only other bed. Back against the head of the bed, ankles crossed; I don't need to think hard to know that it's Cato. He doesn't pay attention to me. Figures. I could be at risk of losing my life, at his hand even, and he wouldn't care. Well, maybe he would, but he wouldn't show it. We don't do that here. Injury is inevitable, what good is mourning every little scratch? I also notice he has a dull, brown, rectangular object held in front of his face. It splits most of the way into two pieces, revealing too many leaflets of paper to count in between the leather covering.

That damned book.

"If they catch you with that, they'll skin you alive," I croak, a small smirk finding its way onto my face. My throat still burns, even more so when I speak, but I can't pass up the opportunity to poke fun at him. But deep down, I hope they do catch him with it. I hope he gets punished and won't pick up that book again. I don't know why I do, but part of me thinks it's out of jealously that he can read and I can't.

That's about all he has on me in terms of academic education. The only thing we were ever taught was to fight; what use is reading and writing and multiplying on the battlefield? He was here three years before I was, so my theory is that he somehow managed to learn in that time, because honestly I don't know how he would've done it so subtly when we've always been together. I like to think that I don't really care. It's just like speaking, only more visual and less audible. Still, the same part of me that is jealous of his irrelevant advantage is also paranoid that things are being hidden from me in words I can't read.

"That's only if they catch me," he replies with a smirk, not looking up from the yellowed pages in his hands. I can't quite tell what he's reading about, because there is only a title on the leather-bound cover, which I obviously can't read; but whatever it is, he must find it very interesting. I respond with a grin, swinging my legs over the side of the bed and stumbling to my feet. My legs feel like jelly, but thankfully I only have to stagger forward a few steps in order to reach the other bed. I pull myself up by Cato's head, my eyes flicking between his face and the mess of letters. And my God, there are a lot of them.

"So…" I clear my throat after a few minutes of silence, "what are you reading about now?"

He stays silent for a moment, as if the words were so captivating he had to will himself to stop, before he looks up at me as if I am nothing more than a dull distraction to him, "Why does it matter?"

"It doesn't," I spit, crossing my arms, "which is why you shouldn't be reading it in the first place. What's in a book that you can't find here?"

"Imagination,"

His response catches me off guard. What does he mean by 'imagination'? There's plenty of imagination in the facility. We use our minds just about every day in training. You have to in fighting, otherwise you're dead meat. Who else could list ten different ways to kill someone with a two-inch blade? I would say that takes a lot of resourcefulness. Most people would just say 'stab them'.

"Where can you find imagination in a book?" this thought of mine is unintentionally said aloud, but I don't regret saying it at all. Can he even give an appropriate answer? "Books are how rich kids that go to school learn things,"

Cato sighs and shakes his head, "This isn't an academic book, Clove," he says, folding the corner of the page that he's at and placing the leather-bound object in my hands, "this is a story,"

I turn it over in my grasp, my eyes scanning over the worn cover, the gold lettering in the title. It looks old. The leather feels dry and rough in my hands, like it's been left in the sun for a week. It feels old. Opening to a random, withered page, I hesitantly press my nose to the paper and inhale deeply. I don't even know how to describe the scent, but it even _smells_ old! Furrowing my brow, I pull the book away from my face and close it again, then turn to look quizzically at Cato. He's watching me, a patient and calm expression on his face. I hardly ever see him like that; I only catch glimpses of it. I don't know why, but his eyes are always directed at me when he looks that way.

"What's the difference?" I demand, blinking a few times at him. His expression falls, like he was hoping for something that didn't come. It's almost disappointment. Is he disappointed in me?

"It's about something that isn't real," he explains. Judging by the sudden amusement on his face, my own must portray the amount of shock that I feel. Why would someone write a book on something _fake_? I narrow my eyes at him. Is he being serious, or making it up so I'll leave him alone with his '_stories_'? It's not like I'm able to check if he's telling the truth, anyway.

"Look:" he continues, lifting the book from my grasp and holding it open so that we can both see the words. He runs his index finger under the first line, and despite the fact that I have no idea what it says, I follow it anyway, "it was written hundreds of years ago, when things were so different. There were no Hunger Games, and states instead of districts. Apparently it wasn't even called Panem,"

That shocks me a little. Although I have never been outside the facility – at any point that I can remember, anyway – I have still seen pictures, and I can't quite visualize the country having a name other than Panem. It just doesn't feel right.

"Apparently people hated their lives so much," Cato shrugs, as if the idea was inconceivable to him, "that the thought of finding other worlds in the burrows of other animals was appealing. With dragons and talking plants and paintings that move,"

I let out a decidedly unappealing snort. Were people really that selfish, that they were revolted by their own existence? And to a further absurdity, they believed they could find something better in a hole in the ground dug out by an animal? What a strange place Panem must've been a few hundred years ago, whatever it was called back then.

"What's a _dragon_?" I smirk at him, a laugh rising in my dry throat. He responds with a chuckle, wrapping an arm around my waist and pinning me against his chest with the brute strength he's renowned for.

"Something only someone with imagination can picture," he teases as I concentrate my strength on removing his clamped-down arm. I let out a gag of protest and he tightens his grip, tilting my head back and smirking up at him. He's a real idiot. But only around me.

He gives me a strange look. Not quite one of his 'calm-and-patient' looks. It's much more relaxed and content, with a bit of subtle confidence thrown in. I can't quite place what it's a look _of_, but he's looking directly at me. His icy blue eyes boring into my grey-green ones. Usually, reading people is a key talent of mine. I can read expressions and body language as well as Cato can read a book. But when it comes to this one, it doesn't seem to be working for me.

"Should we go back to training?" he suggests, loosening his hold enough for me to push his arm off and jump off the bed, my legs having regained their strength. I nod and watch, intrigued, as he stashes the leather-bound novel under his mattress, before he turns back to me and smirks. Stealing a quick glance at the starched hospital bed, I can't help but wonder how many more he has under there, and what they all contain.

A sickening though enters my brain, and once it's there it doesn't stop prodding at my curiosity: is Cato so unhappy with _his_ life, that he takes comfort in these stories? Does he read as some form of…_escape_ from the life he's been given? Is there a part of them that wishes he had a life beyond the facility? These questions, among others, start to bombard me one by one, but I don't ask any of them. What's his business will stay his. For now, at least.

As the two of us make our way out of the hospital ward, my thoughts flash back to my knives. I haven't even had a proper throw today. Haven't yet heard the satisfying sound of a blade embedding in a fleshy object. Suddenly, I am itching to get back into practice, stiff joints and aching chest be damned. My eyes flick to Cato's face, to see his expression of eagerness is mirroring mine. It's a look of confidence and bloodlust. It's a look we've worn since we hit our first targets. The smirk on our faces says it all: we were born to do this.


	3. Prologue 3

**Sorry for the long wait guys! I've had so much on my plate. Hopefully this chapter was worth the wait :)**

* * *

"Clove, just answer my question," Cato huffs, crossing his arms and taking a step in front of my target. He doesn't even flinch as the knife I've just thrown lands right beside his head, an inch from his skull. I hope the blade made sort of cut. It's about time he had a mark on his face.

I roll my eyes and walk away purposefully, as if knives suddenly bore me. My fingers casually skim across my left ear, pretending to scratch at an itch on my head, as my index finger catches on the notch in my skin and cartilage. With my face turned away from Cato, I let my eyebrows furrow. I was nine when he did that. He was twelve. We weren't on the best of terms that year. Amazing what can be done in two minutes. Which was roughly the amount of time our trainers turned their backs from us.

There were glares exchanged between us while we took a break, which turned into hissing, which turned into snarling, which turned into a scuffle on the training mat. That was the day we realized how strong we both were. It took him a few bites, which later called for stitches in the hospital ward, to realize he needed to stay clear of my teeth. By which point, he was too frustrated to do anything about it that involved much patience. Instead he opted for reaching out a lanky arm and snatching up one of my small training knives, which had clattered to the ground as soon as I'd made a grab for his throat, and stabbed it scrappily through the cup of my ear and into the training mat to keep me pinned. Thankfully my shriek of pain caught our trainer's attention again and he was pulled off me before he could do much else.

He likes to act like he came out of that fight a winner, but we both know it was a cowardly move. We deserved the beating we got afterwards.

"Clove," his voice breaks into my thoughts as he walks in front of me again, and his large hand comes into contact with my shoulder to stop me. I meet his questioning gaze with a glare.

"What?" I spit, and tilt my head up to look at the monkey bars a few feet above our heads, bending my legs slightly in preparation to make a jump for them.

He lets out a huff of breath that ruffles the blue-black hair framing my face, a look of barely contained frustration on his face. I arch an eyebrow as he opens his mouth to speak, then snaps it shut again, getting down on one knee and cupping his hands together to form a foothold for me, "I don't see why you're getting so touchy about this," he mutters as I place my foot in his hands and hoist myself up to the bars, wrapping my fingers around them, "I mean it's not like you haven't failed before,"

A hiss forces its way through my teeth as I swing my body back and forth, gaining the right amount of momentum before being able to hook my legs over a bar five spaces away from where my hands are. I snap my head around to glare at him. _Not like you haven't failed before._ The words pierce into me like tiny daggers. It's like he's counting every single time I've failed at something, just so he can bring it up later as his way of saying, 'I told you so'. We're told that absolutely everything we don't succeed in to the degree we want should be classed as a failure; so have I failed before? Yes. Has he failed before?

As many times as I have.

Before I know it, he's jumped onto the monkey bars as well, using his muscular arms to pull himself up to sit on top. I scoff and roll my eyes. '_Show off,_' I think as I cross my arms over my chest, letting my body swing back with my strong (albeit small) legs to keep me from crashing to the ground. The position of my arms, accompanied by my pout and narrowed eyes, must look very childish from this angle, because he returns the expression with a smirk.

"Go on, then," he sniggers, "I'm waiting,"

"For what?" I hiss, "For me to give you the satisfaction of hearing first-hand how it felt to fail an experiment like that? Keep dreaming,"

"No, I'm waiting for you to tell me what went wrong," he persists, sounding frustrated now. I glance up to see his expression mirrors his tone of voice, "Dr. Allik says the first step to improving on something you failed –"

"–is to be able to admit what you did wrong," I roll my eyes. How many times have I heard that? Too many, "But that's the problem, Cato. I don't know what I did wrong,"

I frown and look away from him. Why am I so embarrassed about this? I shouldn't be. It's not like it's something to _be_ embarrassed about. Simply put, I just can't see any error in what I did. As far as I'm concerned, there doesn't necessarily _have_ to be an error, "I guess I just…ran out of oxygen…"

Cato scoffs, and my scowl shoots back at him. I wish my eyes could burn a hole right through his head, sometimes. Maybe then he'd stop drawing attention to himself.

"Maybe your ego took up so much room that your lungs couldn't hold enough," he teases, "you must've given me that little smirk of yours at least three times,"

I almost laugh myself at him suggestion. _He's_ the arrogant one out of the two of us; the show off, the overconfident one. Well, we're both like that, I guess. But I'm not too sure I'm _that_ bad.

Am I?

"The next time you tell me my confidence caused me to fail, I'll slit your throat," I threaten him, a smirk on my face as I swing off the climbing bars and land, unfalteringly, on my feet. Once again, I walk purposefully away from him, only to hear his heavy footsteps follow along behind me. Doesn't he have anything better to do? Shouldn't he be wielding a sword and decapitating dummies?

"Fine," I eventually huff, spinning on my heels to face him again and leaning against the wall. When he catches up to me he grabs one of my knives from the rack out of habit, like he always does when we're talking over here, but I snatch it out of his hand almost immediately, "_Maybe_ I got a little overconfident," I admit, but only so he'll get off my back about it, "but now you have to tell _me _something," I wait for him to give me a curious lift of his brow before continuing, "What were you and Dr. Allik arguing about?"

His face freezes for a split second, as if he didn't expect me at all to ask that question. Maybe he assumed I was too worried about my own suffocation to be paying any attention to what was happening outside of the tank. He kneads his lower lip between his teeth, like he always does when he's in thought, and I wait impatiently for an answer while twirling the knife in my hand. Is he thinking of lying to me? I wouldn't think something like this would be that bad that he'd even need to contemplate whether to tell me, let alone contemplate lying about it.

"I was just asking him to let you out," he finally mumbles with a shrug, scratching the back of his neck, "I mean…wouldn't want you to drown, right?"

I stop twisting the knife, holding it firmly by the sleek handle as I give him a sceptical squint. It looked more like yelling than asking to me, but I don't press on it. Even though they wouldn't have let one of their precious experiments drown completely, we both know that. They'll cut it pretty close – sometimes I actually wonder if the both of us living as long as we have is just a fluke – but they wouldn't be _that_ negligent with two prototypes they've spent a good portion of their lives working on. He knows that, I know that, so why is he suddenly saying he didn't want me to drown when he knew I wouldn't?

Our heads turn towards the door as it clangs open, and our trainers, scientists, nurses and Dr. Allik shuffle in all huddled together, muttering amongst themselves. Cato and look at each other, then back at them; I tilt my head and narrow my eyes as I wonder why they're talking so quietly. As they get closer, I start to take a step forward, but Cato holds me back and shakes his head at me. I stay put; he's better at reading people than I am (better at reading anything in general), so I trust his that his judgement is reliable.

I still want to hear what they're saying. As the two of us are silent, I manage to catch onto a few words, just barely. Random words like _cure, emotion, help; _or quick phrases like _not ready, too old, focus better, _are thrown around amongst them. I have no idea what they're arguing about, but whatever it is, there's definitely more than two sides.

They suddenly stop, and silence falls over the entire circular room as they realize we're there. Their heads turn in our direction, seven pairs of eyes trained on us. The nurses and scientists glance at each other nervously, like they're afraid of what we overheard, but our trainers and Dr. Allik look as stern as ever. Both Cato and eye stare back at them, seemingly unfazed. I can't help but wonder if Cato heard the same things I did.

Cato's scientist (although they're more often than not referred to as handlers) clears his throat after a short moment of complete stillness.

"Why don't you two go eat lunch?"

His voice is filled with nervousness and uncertainty, yet the mention of lunch seems to lift a weight of my shoulders. I can tell it puts Cato in a good mood too, because he turns back to me, grinning, and shoves me lightly with a teasing, "Let's go, shorty,"

I roll my eyes and laugh lightly, pushing his chest in return as I walk by his side. I don't really feel like eating, not when my throat still feels like sandpaper, and laughing doesn't exactly feel too good on it either. But I try to make it seem like what just happened hasn't affected me in the slightest. If we weren't supposed to overhear that conversation (which is why I suppose it was discussed in hushed voices), then I don't want them getting the impression I did.

The lunch room is a small, square chamber that sits behind a door at one end of the training hall that's quite boring compared to all the other doors in the facility. It's a completely white room with a sleek metal bench in the centre for eating on, and it's roughly twice the size of my cell. It doesn't need to be big, because there are no more than three of us in there at a time. But today, it's just the two of us. Our food is already waiting for us, sitting on silver trays across from each other like they usually are.

We go and sit opposite one another in complete silence, and look down at our food. It's always the same thing: a small hunk of something juicy that was cut off the backside of some animal out there, accompanied by a mound of rice and peas and a glass of water. Our handlers tell us we're very lucky to have something this nice to eat, even once a day; apparently only fifteen per-cent of the district can eat like this.

I've never seen the outside of District 2, but I agree that Cato and I are lucky. To have solid food even as little as once a day is a blessing, in my opinion. Each morning, we're injected with a green chemical that gives us enough nutrients for it to be considered breakfast. We're given the same thing every night as 'dinner'. But the scientists came to the conclusion when we were seven and ten that if we're human, we should be treated like it to some degree. So they included a small meal hallway through the day that we could actually bite into. We think it's one of the better changes made to our regime; our trainers think it strengthens our teeth in case we're in the situation we need to bite someone.

Usually, we aren't allowed to talk while we're eating, but since we're unsupervised today, Cato decides to speak up while I'm busy separating my peas from my rice out of boredom, "Not hungry?"

"Not particularly," I mutter quietly, my eyes trained on my food. Most days I would take my time to eat all the food on my tray and empty my glass. Cato's probably learned that if I'm eating too fast or not eating at all, something's wrong, "You want it?"

"No, I'm alright…" he mumbles as he chews on a piece of meat.

I come to the conclusion that neither of us are good at small talk.

We sit in absolute silence again. I take small sips of my water as I pick at my food, occasionally shovelling a small portion into my mouth and inwardly cringing as it goes down my throat like a handful of rusty nails.

It feels like hours have passed when he finally clears his throat, breaking the stillness. I don't look up, too busy cutting my meat into tiny pieces that I can eat, but my ears prick to attention. In the heavy muteness of the room, I can hear his lips part as he hesitates to speak, a small croak slipping out as he stops himself. I don't know what I expect him to say, but I wasn't prepared for what came out.

"What do you think about the Hunger Games?"

I slowly lift my head to look at him, my eyes searching his face for any tell-tale signs of a joke. But all I see are sharp blue orbs of an amazingly bright hue reflecting my own serious back at me. I let out a heavy sigh and return to cutting my meat up.

"Why do you wanna know?" I mumble.

"Answer my question first," he insists, and even out of the top of my gaze I see no grin on his face. He's serious.

I sigh again at how slowly our lunch break is passing. But I know he won't let this go if he's this determined to get an answer out of me, and I can't avoid the question.

"They're….alright," I shrug, stabbing a small piece of the beef on my tray and popping it in my mouth, chewing slowly as I look up at Cato. He arches an eyebrow and gives me an 'are you serious?' look. I know it's a pretty shit answer, but what am I supposed to say?

"You don't have any opinions on them?" he presses.

I groan and slam my utensils on the table.

"What does it matter if I do?" I hiss, "They aren't our problem!"

He shrugs and leans on his elbows, backing off a little as he sees how ticked off I am, "Well…they might be someday…"

I blink at him for a moment, dumbfounded by the thought. In the fifteen years of my existence I've never once been given a reason to consider we'd be involved in the Games in any way. If we were meant to be, we'd be regular district residents, and not in a secluded testing facility, right?

"Why do you say that?" I ask, starting to become curious. Maybe he may not have heard what I did before, but what if he heard things I didn't? I'm still not quite sure what relevance it has to us, since we're prototypes for _soldiers_, not tributes, but I still can't help but feel a little intrigued by it now.

"Well, I–"

He's cut off as the door swings open. My nurse stands there, looking older than she probably is in her starched white-and-grey uniform. I look away from Cato and up at her, feeling a little sheepish at the fact that we were not only talking, but I haven't eaten. She only looks at us both with an expression that can only resemble boredom, her two gold ringlets swaying by the side of her face.

"Clove, you're due for a mental check-up in Room 8," she states, holding the door open for me. Which is her way of saying I should_ hurry up_.

My brow furrows and my lip juts out in a small pout, "But I had one two weeks ago…"

"Doctor's orders," she says sternly, narrowing her eyes. I sigh and stand, pushing what's left on my tray over to Cato, who's finished everything on his. He gives me a confused and worried glance, starting to stand as well, but I shoot him a quick scowl that tells him to stay seated and finish my food for me. I'm tired of him acting all concerned today. It's not like it's his problem. Why should he care?

Quick answer: he shouldn't.

I trudge out of the lunch hall, followed purposefully by my handler. She walks at a brisk pace, herding me out of the large circular room and down the east corridor of the facility. The first room is at the very end, so we have to walk a while to get to Room 8. I don't speak the entire time, mostly because I don't like communicating with handlers, but also because I have the feeling she isn't in a very good mood today.

When we (finally) reach the room where I take all my mental check-ups, she stands back and nods at the door, signalling for me to go in.

"Why do I even have to –?" I start, but she interrupts me with a hiss and nods to the door again. I sigh and roll my eyes, glancing up at the large _8 _printed in black on the white door.

I wipe my hands on my cotton tunic briefly before taking a deep breath and taking hold of the silver handle. I'm not sure why they've needed to call me into Room 8 a second time this month. As far as I'm concerned, it's for one of three reasons:

Option one: something's wrong.

Option two: something's wrong.

Option three: something's wrong.

I shake my head slightly. No, I'm overreacting. Nothing could have gone wrong so soon after my last appointment. They would have picked up on something. Still, the fact that I _am_ here is proof enough that something has happened that's given them the need to call me back in, and it bugs me to an annoying extent what it is.

I groan slightly and turn the spotless silver handle. I'm going to find out anyway, what does it matter?


	4. Author's Note

**(You'll probably be seeing a lot of these between the next several chapters)**

**I'm sorry, so sorry. But if any of you are actually EXCITED about this story (doubtful), you may have come to the conclusion about two weeks ago that it'll be some time before I update. Honestly there's a lot going on for me right now, and amidst anxiety and depression and all this other shit my life is just a war zone in general. I just have no inspiration for writing anything, let alone this, and while I'm trying my hardest to spit out a fourth chapter and some other things I've been meaning to write, it may be some time. Sorry lovelies :(**

**Regards,**  
**That's the Glory of Esther**


	5. Please Don't Kill Me

*long extended groan*

Okay so here's the thing guys:

I am deleting this story.

But before you either huff in exasperation, cry out of sheer pain, or cheer 'Thank the fucking Lord!', let me explain you a thing:

Yes, I am deleting this story. But I will be resubmitting it within the next month, completely changed and rewritten. There will be major changes to the plot to allow for newer, better ideas I've been wanting to add in for a while. Plus, I've never liked writing in first person, especially not multi-chapter stories, so I don't know why I thought this would be any different. _Especially_ since I think it looks like I've done a shit job at Clove's character. Which I haven't. You'll see if you have any interest in reading the newer revision.

So…yeah. If you have any suggestions, questions or comments, feel free to drop a review to this note or send me a PM. Or follow me if you want to be notified when the newer version is published, which will hopefully be before September 1st (my birthday, yay!). Until then, I'll be keeping _this_ version up until I have chapter one of the new version ready to upload, and I'll probably just fill in the spare hours with bullshit oneshots.

But thank you to those who've put up with the wait (even Cherie and Ella, even though they have to because they're my friends). It means a lot.

*end groan*


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